


Bingley & Darcy

by justakidfromabadan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, but other than that everything is just pure, everything is okay tho i promise, in which q is a worried cat dad, nothing bad happens to bingley, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28005927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justakidfromabadan/pseuds/justakidfromabadan
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	1. Bingley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeathValleyQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathValleyQueen/gifts).



Q does not have bad days.

He has a bad couple of hours when 007’s tracker inevitably “fails” and falls off the face of the earth, or he goes into cardiac arrest for a heart-stopping (no pun intended) few minutes before impossibly pulling out of it like 007 is want to do.

It’s all part of the job. Q is good at handling stress, especially 007-related stress, because he is good at compartmentalizing. Everything has its place in Q’s mind.

But then Bingley, his affectionate ginger tabby, becomes ill, and suddenly the carefully cultivated borders of Q’s brain that separate MI6 from home blend into one another.

Q hasn’t slept all night, having spent a majority of it plus a good chunk of his paycheck on x-rays and blood tests before being told surgery is the only way to save his good, handsome boy. Bingley is only seven, a good middle-aged lad in feline years, but Q is not ready to say goodbye, not like this.

He’s at his station in the Bunker, his untouched cup of morning Earl Grey growing cold. He casts his mind away from memories of Bingley’s pitiful meows and tries to focus on the piece of code splashed on one of his monitors.

It keeps throwing an error, blast it, with no actual helpful message other than “invalid syntax” and the bloody line number. His eyes tread over line 166 over and over again, but there’s nothing wrong with it. He’s initialized the variable. He’s calling it correctly.

Something must be wrong with the algorithm. He hasn’t coded it properly, he’s sure.

Q reaches for a stray piece of scratch paper, completely forgetting about his tea. His hand knocks against the cup. The world tilts and slows as the cup teeters in its saucer. Q feels the single beat of his heart last an eternity.

Time returns to its normal speed as tea and sugar and cream spill over his desk. Q’s tired body stutters into action half a second too late, and the spillage drenches his keyboard and drips unceremoniously onto the crotch of his trousers.

On a normal day, on a day where he’d be secure in the knowledge of Bingley lording over his flat and basking in a sunbeam on his favorite spot on Q’s torn-up armchair, this wouldn’t be a problem. He’d mop up the mess. He’d replace the keyboard with another one. He’d move on with the minor inconvenience.

But a wet, malfunctioning keyboard with its caps lock light blinking desperately topped with stained trousers are just enough to send him over the edge. Q’s vision swims and blurs. He no longer has it in him to fight the sob building in his throat all day. So he puts his head in his hand and surrenders to it.

Q is not fond of crying, especially not in public. Logically, he knows that his office does not count as a “public” space, especially since it’s in the old WWII bunkers below London, but there is no semblance of privacy in MI6, particularly in Q Branch.

And of course, just as that helpful thought crosses his mind, his door slides open to reveal a self-satisfied 007.

The smile slides off James’ face, though, as he takes in the tableau of Q’s obvious distress. “Q?”

“What do you want?” Q snaps, though it comes out miserable and nasally. He’s not making eye contact with 007 but at least his brain has finally kicked into gear to mop up the mess before any other electronics on his desk join the fate of his keyboard. 

“What’s the matter?”

Q does not answer. Relief is settling in around the realization that his hard drive is safely under the desk and his monitor is mounted, so his keyboard is the only real casualty here, not counting his bruised pride.

For whatever reason, though, more tears stream from his eyes, deciding that humiliating him in front of James Fucking Bond is the best course of action.

“Q.”

Q does not acknowledge his tears or 007. The cold texture of a wad of Kleenex tissues sopping with wet tea grosses him out, but he adamantly does not look up. From his periphery, he senses 007 moving inside the room and closing the door behind him.

“Quentin.”

That gets his attention, and his gaze snaps up. 007 knows his given name?

“It really isn’t a good time, 007,” Q says, trying for professional nonchalance as he toes the trashcan from under his desk and chucks the wet tissues into it. His entire desk smells like lemon and Ceylon now. “I can brief you tomorrow.”

“Fuck the brief.”

Q stills again. There are only two reasons why 007 would curse if his vital data is to be believed. Either he is calling out a bluff, or he’s about to throw down in a big way.

007 does not look angry, so Q plucks another Kleenex to blow his nose. There’s no point in keeping it to himself anyway. He wipes roughly at his cheeks. “Bingley’s getting surgery,” Q says in a flat, unceremonious tone. “I had to take him to the hospital last night.”

“Bingley?” 007 blinks, then his gaze snags at the framed picture of Bingley and Darcy cuddling on the hearth last Christmas. “Your cat?”

More than a cat. Bingley’s family. He has been since Q adopted him and Darcy when they were just kittens. But to 007, he only says, “Yeah.”

Silence is a fragile thing between them.

“Which hospital?” says James after a moment.

“Erm.” It’s Q’s turn to blink. “The one near Hyde Park?”

James nods, and there is another breath before his brows set in determination. “Grab your coat.”

“What?” Q says.

James is already halfway out of Q’s office, keys jangling in his hand. “I’m driving.” 


	2. Bertha I

Hyde Park Veterinary Centre is a cozy white-front shop tucked in the heart of Connaught Village. It’s the closest vet from Q’s flat, but even if Q lived an hour away, he’d still bring Bingley and Darcy here for their annual checkups. The staff are friendly, and both of Q’s little furry ones are infamous here.

“Wait in the car,” Q attempts to persuade James, but he’s insistent on accompanying Q to hear the news.

And Q, for once, is glad that James listens to no one but his own instincts.

When the two of them walk through the shop, Bertha is at the front desk, wearing her signature pink scrubs with adorable Rottweilers on them. Her sweet, dark face breaks into a wide grin as she looks up from her computer. “Quentin! Not that it’s not lovely to see you, but I thought I told you to go home and get some rest.”

Q gives her a rueful smile. “How’s Bing?”

“He’s a trooper. The painkillers calmed him, and he didn’t give us any trouble trying to put him under. They’ve been there for half an hour so far.” Her face softens. “You should go home, Quentin, get some sleep.”

“I look that bad, huh?” Q tries to quip, but his heart just isn’t in it. Exhaustion weighs down his words.

“You look like you need a hug.” Bertha, bless her heart, cuts her shrewd eyes to James, who is shadowing Q without interrupting their exchange.

Q feels warmth crawl up his neck, and he laughs nervously. “Oh, right, how rude of me.” He clears his throat. “Bertha, this is James, a colleague of mine. James, this is Bertha, the best veterinary nurse in the whole of London proper.”

“Oh, stop it,” Bertha says, pleased as she takes James’ hand. “Lovely to meet you, James.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” James says in his suave James Bond fashion, and Q has to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

Bertha’s smile is now all-too-knowing as he glances at Q before looking back at James. “You look strong enough to manhandle him,” she says bluntly, and Q makes an involuntary, high-pitched noise. “Make sure he goes home and sleeps?”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” James says in his best mission-ready voice, but there’s a telling smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Go on, then,” Bertha says. “I’ll call when they’re done with Bing.”

“Promise?” Q says.

“I promise.”


	3. Darcy

In his many daydreams featuring James Bond coming over to his flat, Q has never expected it to be because of Bingley. He’s always thought it would be because James needed an off-the-records favor or to ask him to be accompanied on a mission.

“You really, really don’t have to do this,” he says to James as he fishes his keys out of his voluminous coat pocket. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

“I’m aware,” James says, a hint of amusement still hovering about his person, almost like an aura. “A promise is still a promise.”

Q sighs as he slides his key in the lock and turns it. If he’d known James would be paying him a visit, he’d have at least bothered to tidy a bit.

His flat is swallowed in darkness as he pushes the door open. From the shadows, he sees the glint of a pair of orb-like eyes lounging in Bingley’s usual spot. He doesn’t dart away either as Q flicks on the lights nor when James walks in behind him.

There is a display of displeasure, though, in the form of one long, heart-wrenching mrowl, which Q has never heard him make before.

“I know,” Q says to him in response. “I miss him, too, but he’s going to be alright, and he’ll be back soon.”

“Who is this lovely fellow?” James has already walked towards him and is holding out a hand for Darcy to sniff.

“That’s Darcy,” Q says as he shucks his coat and hangs it on his overflowing coat-rack full of other coats and a single, bright yellow umbrella. “He really doesn’t like people. Took him a year just to get him to sit in my lap.”

On cue, as if to prove Q wrong, Darcy bumps James’ hand with his head.

“Seems to like me just fine,” James says, and he pets Darcy between his too-large ears.

Q gapes at the traitor, who starts to purr like a diesel engine. 

“So Bingley and Darcy. I didn’t take you for an Austen fan.”

One of Q’s eyebrows quirks. “The Great James Bond gets that reference?”

“You’ve read my file.” James scratches under Darcy’s chin. “You know I had to endure Eaton.”

“Eaton? Seriously?”

“At least it wasn’t Harrow.”

Q narrows his eyes. “Are you patronizing me, 007?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Is it working?”

Q swats at him lightly. “Do you fancy a drink?”

They drink scotch with Darcy claiming James’ lap and kneading his trousers. James, on his part, does not seem to mind.

After a few moment’s silence, James holds his whisky glass to the light and gives it an appraising look. “Johnnie Walker?”

“It’s the only scotch I’d heard of.” In point of fact, Q had stocked his sparse liquor cabinet with it, vowing never to drink it unless it was with James. He still recalled walking to the corner liquor store with a twenty-quid note in hand, slamming it on the counter, and proclaiming he’d like a bottle of Blue Label.

The clerk had given him a once-over before tucking the twenty-quid note in his till. “Sure know what you like, then, eh?”

It’s probably best if Q takes that particular memory to the grave.

He pushes up his glasses and regards James. “Thank you, James, for today.”

James shifts on Q’s checkered sofa, sprawling a bit more casually on it to face Q. He’s a vision, his two top shirt buttons popped open, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal lightly tanned forearms. Q’s heart clenches like a fist in his chest with the knowledge that James’ suit jacket is draped over his dining room chair.

“It was my pleasure,” James says, raising his glass as if in toast. He says it like he says everything else, his voice smooth as the scotch they’re drinking, but Q has never basked in the spotlight of James’ full attention before. It’s almost intimidating. “Bertha was right. You looked like you needed a hug.”

Q’s mouth decides to run its own course without checking in with his brain. “All this talk of hugging, and I’ve received none. Shame, really.”

James minds Darcy on his lap before moving his arm to rest on the back of the sofa. “I fear my life if I force him off my lap, but you could have at least a quarter of a hug.”

Q stares, mouth going suddenly dry.

“Come on,” James says. “I won’t bite.”

Still, Q does not move.

James pats his own shoulder insistently until Q sidles up against him and only hesitates a beat before accepting the invitation.

“Oh my god,” Q can’t help saying because James natural heat could easily replace an electric blanket. He smells pleasantly of aloe and lavender, a starkly softer scent than Q would have expected of him. Q burrows further against him and eyes Darcy whose body language echoes the same blissed-out euphoria Q is experiencing himself. “I need you to know that you’re in the very real danger of not being allowed to go home tonight.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Q looks up at him from above his frames. “Really?”

“I have no intentions of breaking my promise to Bertha.” James murmurs and rests his chin against Q’s head.

“You’re a wise man.” The edges of Q’s words are blunted by a sudden spell of sleepiness. “Is that the only reason?”

“No,” James says, and Q hears the clink of his whisky glass against a side table. “If I left, Darcy might not let you sleep.”

“Those sound like excuses to me, 007.”

James’ hand, when it cups his cheek, is rough and warm. Q leans into it, only to have James tilt his chin.

“How’s this for an excuse?” James says and his lips are on Q’s without further justification.

Q’s brain BSODs and then reboots entirely. When his faculties are back online, he allows himself to sink into the kiss, dizzied by the solid heat of James’ presence, surrounded by the faint whiff of alcohol on James’ breath. Eventually, he also remembers to kiss back, his hand sliding over the plane of James’ chest.

Their mutual silent confession is interrupted by a declarative meow, and then Darcy’s furs tickles Q’s chin as he tries to plant himself in the midst of their affection.

Q giggles into the kiss, and they pull apart just enough to allow Darcy between them.

“Oh I’m sorry,” Q coos, petting Darcy under his chin. “Were you feeling quite neglected?”

“How dare we,” James muses, rubbing circles along Darcy’s back. “I see kisses are not allowed at Pemberley.”

Q snorts. “I think they’re allowed only if you don’t stop petting him.”

“I clearly can’t be trusted to do two things at once.”

“That sounds like more excuses,” Q says. “Clearly, I need further evidence to come to a sound conclusion for myself.”

James’ eyes twinkle in the low light. “Is that right?”

“Quite so. The experiment is in its early stages. I shall need more data points.”

“Well,” James says as he leans in again. “If it’s data we’re after, I can certainly deliver.”


	4. Bertha II

Q’s mobile buzzes some time later and propels him into wakefulness.

He’s aching everywhere, which is not surprising, given his precarious position on the sofa, curled up against none other than James Bond.

“It’s alright,” James soothes, and though his voice is groggy with sleep, he looks alert. “I think it might be Bertha.”

Q fumbles for his mobile with sleep-clumsy fingers and manages to extract it from his pocket.

As foretold, Bertha’s name lights up the screen. 

Q answers it with a shaking finger. “Hullo?”

“Hi, Q,” Bertha says. “Just calling to let you know Bingley’s out of surgery, and he was a champ the whole time. He’s going to be groggy for a little while, so we’d like to keep an eye on him.”

Relief floods all of Q’s senses at once, and the sheer amount of endorphins in his system at once make him light-headed enough that he has to tip his head back against James’ shoulder. “Oh,” he says, “oh thank goodness.” 

Bertha continues, “He’s probably going to be grouchy when he gets off the pain meds, and he’ll have to wear the dreaded cone of shame for a while.” 

“He’s alive,” Q says, and his voice wobbles. “That’s enough.” 

“I’ll give you a call again when he’s awake and ready to be taken home.”

“Grand,” Q says and wipes under at his eyes under his spectacles. “Cheers, Bertha. You’re a lifesaver.” 

"It’s Dr. Hensen you’ll be wanting to thank,” Bertha says cheerfully. “I only stood there and did what I was told.” 

Q gives Bertha a watery snort that turns into a laugh. “Oh yes, I’m sure it’s easy to be a caring, loving, absolutely brilliant human being.” 

“Eve’s right,” Bertha says, and there’s definitely a grin in her voice. “You’re adorable when you haven’t slept.”

Q hangs up with a smile on his face and turns to James, laughing through his tears. “Surgery went well.”

“I gathered,” Jays says with a smile of his own. “What’s next?”

“She’ll call me when he’s awake, and I can go fetch him.” Q sniffles and pats his wrinkled trousers for a handkerchief. 

James beats him to it. He holds out an expensive-looking embroidered kerchief. 

Q takes it and wipes at his face, which cannot, in any way, look attractive at the moment. “Thank you, James, for staying with me through the night. I don’t know if I would’ve…” 

He trails off, not wanting to pursue the thought of an alternate universe where he would have had to worry about Bingley by himself.

“Pain is a remarkable thing,” James says, and his voice feels distant. “Even if nothing changes, it helps to have someone sit by you through it.” 

Q’s heart falters. He’s bickered enough with 007 on their comms, throwing out one-liners under duress, but he’s never considered the idea of James in pain.

It’s an embarrassing concession, even if it is just to himself, because it means that he’s thought of James as something beyond human, unable to feel pain. 

But perhaps James has felt more pain than anyone, including Q himself, who has led a perfectly sheltered life without any shame. 

Maybe that’s why Darcy’s taken to James without preamble. Cats seem to have a kind of innate wisdom humans lack.

But then also, sometimes, they chase their own tales. So who knows. 

“Hey,” Q says, as he becomes aware of the fact that his cat is nowhere in sight, “where’s Darcy?”

“He sort of prowled off a while ago towards your bedroom.” James looks around. “I haven’t seen him since.” 

Worry claws at Q’s chest, and he springs up to his feet. 

He finds Darcy on the highest perch of the shared cat tree, curled up in Bingley’s unofficial napping nook.

When the light flickers on, Darcy looks up, his intelligent greenish eyes finding Q and letting out the smallest mewl that sounds too close to a whimper. 

Q moves into the room and reaches a hand up to pet Darcy. He half-expects his dour cat to hiss at him or to bat his hand away, but Darcy just extends his body towards Q and rubs his whispers against his knuckles before letting out another whimpering cry. 

“I know,” Q consoles. “I’m worried about him, too. He’ll be back tomorrow, though, and you can nap with him again.”

Darcy starts to purr.

Q leans in and kisses him square on the forehead.


	5. Reunited

To say that Bingley is out of it is the understatement of the millennium. 

When they bring him back home — yes, they, because apparently James Bond has a soft spot for middle-aged cats named after great works of literature — Darcy sniffs around his carrier, looks up at Q with bright eyes and meows authoritatively. 

“I know,” Q, who speaks Darcy fluently, agrees. “I’m afraid he’s going to be sleeping like that for a while.” 

Three days, apparently, is how long “a while” lasts. In the interim, Q has to put up with Darcy being a complete brat, cry-meowing incessantly at Bingley who only has the energy to nibble at his wet food before drifting back to sleep. 

It’s half past four in the morning on Tuesday when Q gives in and calls James. 

“Q,” James greets him with a note of concern in his voice, “is everything alright?”

James does not sound like he’s been sleeping, and there’s a twinge in Q’s chest that nudges at his worry sensors.

“Darcy’s driving me up the walls,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. 

“What’s he doing?”

Right on cue, Darcy lets out a yowling mrowl that lasts about five excruciating seconds.

“Please,” Q says, “I know it’s early, but I haven’t slept in three days, and I really, really can’t afford another day off work.” He swallows. “Will you come over?”

The hesitation on James’ part is miniscule but still noticeable. “I’ll be there in twenty.” 

Thirteen minutes later, there’s a knock at Q’s flat door. Darcy darts out of the bedroom and trots up to the front door, his tail quivering in excitement. Q swears sometimes that Darcy is a dog trapped in a cat’s body, forced upon his own feline instincts. 

Q opens the door and thinks he might have a nosebleed at the sight that meets him. James is clad in black jeans and a simple white tee under a raincoat which makes him easily look like an effortless runway model. James Bloody Bond in casual clothing is a sin. Q has to yank his eyes back up to James’ smirking mouth. 

“Er,” Q says eloquently. “Hi.” 

Darcy, who is deathly afraid of setting paw outside Q’s threshold, meows loudly to let his royal presence be known.

“Come in, please,” Q says. “Not as if you have a choice. I think he might cling to your coat to go with you if you leave.”

James steps inside, his smile widening as Darcy immediately buttheads his shins. “I see I’ve been missed.” 

Well, that part is certainly true. Sure, Darcy is making him absolutely crazy and won’t let him sleep, but Q’s been plenty grumpy on his own without James at his flat. It might have all happened over two long days, but a part of him — and all of Darcy for that matter — certainly got used to James’ easy presence. 

Darcy’s obvious excitement, though, is contagious because Bingley finally leaves the confines of his carrier and wobbles, quite adorably, to James to get his share of affections.

“I should’ve been born a cat,” Q mutters and shakes his head. “Coffee?”

James shoots him a glance from where he’s crouched to pay tribute to the rightful feline gods. “I thought you were going to try to get some sleep.”

Q shrugs noncommittally, not wanting to put into words this new urge at the base of his belly that makes him think maybe, just maybe, he also wants affections from James, too. 

“You haven’t been sleeping either,” Q says instead.

James stands, and both cats, sated with attention, saunter out of sight. 

“You don’t miss a thing, do you.”

“No, but you’ve always loved that about me.” 

The words are out of his mouth before Q can snatch them back and cram them back in their rightful place.

James gazes at him. Tension grows spikes in the silence that stretches between them — or maybe, that’s just Q’s nerves which have set to jangling.

Q folds his arms around his middle and rubs his perpetually freezing toes against the back of his calf, averting his eyes away from James’ intense blue ones. They’re far too calculating and much too sharp for Q’s good, and Q, vulnerable as he is, doesn’t feel like being dissected by an international spy who tends to dissect people’s behaviors for a living. 

“I would have come,” James says so softly that Q almost has to lean in to hear him, “whether it was for Darcy or not.” 

Hope thunders in Q’s his chest. “Will you stay, then?”

James steps into Q’s space and cups his face in his large, warm hand. 

All rationality leaves Q’s mind entirely and his breath hitches.

A smile peeks through James’ somber demeanor. “As you wish.”


End file.
